A soft golden light filled the space.
It was warm, radiant and absolute.
It poured down like a waterfall from the high ceiling of the sacred hall, reflecting off crystal mosaics and polished silver walls that shimmered with the blessings of old gods. Runes glowed faintly along the stone floor beneath, forming a radiant circle that pulsed in sync with the heartbeat of the boy kneeling at its center.
Ren clenched his fists, gritting his teeth as a burning pain seared through his right arm.
It was from tattoo.
It twisted and writhed as if alive, veins of red-black corruption crawling under his skin. The light pressed in harder, and inch by inch, the mark began to peel away—not like ink fading, but like an infection being forcefully extracted and evaporating instantly.
With it, every ounce of dark essence—every cursed whisper, every fragment of hatred and despair—was torn from his body.
